We quarrel over his demand for furtiveness. I find it humiliating. He says I’ve over-reacted to a minor event. I say he doesn’t know how minor or major this incident is to me. Our wills clash. I feel the toughness and irony in him and I display my own. He says, ‘I’ve suffered horribly through all this, these last few months.’ ‘I know you have. But you don’t show it.’ ‘You only had to look at me, to see it.’ I begin to be ashamed of myself. ‘I love you,’ he says, ‘without pride.’ ‘I know you do,’ I say humbly; ‘I love you, but proudly.’ I return to E’s, a sobered woman. This terrible pride. Through it I begin to understand the imagery of Christianity—the longing to be washed, to have chains struck from me.